


just at the mirk and midnight hour

by IgnotusSomnium, Juan_Pujol_Garcia, orcamermaid



Series: The Inherent Romanticism of Dragons [6]
Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballad 39: Tam Lin, Body Horror, Dehumanization, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Loss of Autonomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26364907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnotusSomnium/pseuds/IgnotusSomnium, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juan_Pujol_Garcia/pseuds/Juan_Pujol_Garcia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orcamermaid/pseuds/orcamermaid
Summary: The Court decides it wants Jonny back. Nastya brings her brother home.
Relationships: Jonny d'Ville & Nastya Rasputina
Series: The Inherent Romanticism of Dragons [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832185
Comments: 5
Kudos: 119





	just at the mirk and midnight hour

**Author's Note:**

> title from [child 39A](http://tam-lin.org/versions/39A.html):  
> "Just at the mirk and midnight hour  
> The fairy folk will ride,  
> And they that wad their true-love win,  
> At Miles Cross they maun bide."

It's a bleak, overcast day, the clouds heavy with rain. Nastya is in the marketplace of a small town—she can't remember the name; they pass through so many towns—watching Jonny haggle for overpriced jerky. He's right, the vendor is asking twice what it's worth, but they're running out of room to be picky. She's hungry, and she knows he is too.

“For fuck's sake,” Jonny says, turning toward her. “We're not gonna spend all our money on this crap.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder and steers her away. Nastya sighs.

“We have to find something,” she mumbles. “We need food.”

“We've gotta find a job. Got enough coin for bread for a couple days, at least.”

Before she can respond, Jonny stops dead. He stands still for a moment, frozen, then turns and walks away from the market. Nastya furrows her brow in confusion and rushes to follow him.

“Jonny? Where are you going?”

He doesn't answer her. They turn down an alley, and he stops. She watches as a strange wind kicks up, swirling around him in a flurry of dead leaves.

And then he's gone.

It takes her a moment to even process what just happened. She stares with mounting horror at the space where Jonny was a moment ago. Her legs give out, and she falls to her knees in the alleyway.

* * *

The Queen sits upon her throne. There have been such interesting rumors swirling recently, centered upon one former changeling. Learning magic, questing, making a name for himself? Such a rare thing, among the Court’s many castoffs. If these tales are not baseless, this one is far too valuable to let slip past. The Queen has never liked not knowing the truth behind such fascinating tales. Fortunately, the Duchess who held that changeling's name was more than happy to relinquish it for forgiveness of certain debts.

“Jonathan Vangelis, your Queen summons you to Court.”

The Court is a splendor of color, as delicate and dramatic as the autumn leaves that form its seasonal decor. A flurry of wind stirs a handful of said leaves as her new plaything arrives. The Queen smiles. “Welcome home, Jonathan. We have been hearing such interesting stories about you.”

She suppresses a wince of distaste at the boy’s appearance. At least brown is an autumnal color, but those rags are simply unacceptable for one of her performers. And the filth—if he were a cu sidhe, it would be a different matter, but the entertainment must be held to a higher standard. Ah, well. One must make allowances for new arrivals, and a bath is simple enough. At least it does not take him long to realize where he is and before whom he stands. He does not dare look her in the eyes, so it seems his courtly manners have not all been lost. His hands are shaking. “No,” he says weakly.

The Queen smiles down at him. ”Your former mistress spoke quite highly of your voice. We desire to hear you sing us a tale. Tell us of your adventures these past few years.”

He glares at her, anger seemingly breaking through the fear. “I don't sing.”

The Queen laughs, and it chimes like heavenly music. She does so enjoy the feisty ones. There is nothing so adorable as futile defiance. “Yes, you do, Jonathan. Sing for us. We shall enjoy your spirited nature, but only after the tale has been told.” She reclines on her throne to enjoy the show.

The boy’s voice is indeed lovely. This is quite fortunate for him, as his tale begins in the most dreary fashion. Stories of meeting his sister and their time scrounging for a living on the road? The Queen half-suspects him of dragging out the topic solely to spite her. Even such inane yarns are enjoyable when sung with such skill, though, so she bides her time instead of scolding him.

Eventually, he gets around to the interesting part. And how fascinating! Truly worth the wait. Carmilla… The Queen has not heard that name in a _very_ long time. No wonder this boy has become the subject of such rumors, after so long under her tutelage. She does have to question her choice of raw materials, though… Surely Carmilla can do better for apprentices than an ungrateful brat who would flee from her. The Queen shakes her head. Carmilla was always full of mysteries.

She shifts her attention back to the performance, which appears to be nearing its conclusion. The final verse is a genuinely impressive blend of mournful and enraged, as the boy describes how her summons tore him away from his sister. As the last notes echo through the Court, he hurls a ball of fire directly at her, face twisted with wrath and despair.

The Queen laughs and applauds politely as the ball of fire dissipates harmlessly several feet away from her throne. “Marvelous. An entertaining addition to our retinue indeed.”

“Fuck you!”

The Queen tilts her head to the side slightly. It seems he does not understand the generosity she shows him. “So ungrateful,” she sighs. “Few mortals are ever honored with the chance to serve the Court twice in a lifetime.”

"Honored?" His laughter has a tinge of hysteria. "I've been more _honored_ in a leaky barn than I ever was here."

“And your mistress described you as such a polite boy,” the Queen muses. “It seems your time away has eroded your manners. You’ll not insult your betters, Jonathan. Or speak when not addressed directly.”

His mouth works soundlessly for a few moments. In a fit of defiance, he flips her off.

The Queen frowns, ever so slightly. A bit of spirit is entertaining, but rudeness simply cannot be allowed to stand. Even the most audacious of pets must know their place.

“We see we have some work to do. Come sit at our feet like a good pet, Jonathan.”

He approaches her throne on unsteady legs and kneels, head bowed. The Queen deigns to reach down and pat his head twice.

“That’s better. Behave, Jonathan, we do have other matters to attend to.” She motions to one of her courtiers and resumes the normal business of Court.

In a lapse between audiences, the Queen’s attention returns to the boy shaking at her feet. She runs a hand through his hair, frowning at the grime and the tangles. She tilts his head upwards, noting the tear tracks. What an ugly appearance. The Queen beckons two of her ladies-in-waiting.

“Clean him up, and find him clothes more suitable for one of our attendants,” she orders. “You may stand, Jonathan.”

He staggers to his feet, wincing. In some pathetic attempt at defiance, he sends a blast of explosive magic towards her courtiers. It flickers out at their feet, of course, but clearly this issue must be nipped in the bud.

“Jonathan. Look at us.” The Queen pauses, making eye contact until his face pales and he attempts futilely to avert his gaze. “We understand that you have been away from us, and allowed to grow wild in the absence of a guiding hand. But know this: such a poor attitude will not be tolerated.” He opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off with a hand on his face. “You do not seem to understand how generous we are being, with this second chance to serve. Continue to be ungrateful, and we will not keep you.” She drums her fingers on his cheek. “It must be admitted that we did not part from Lady Carmilla on the best of terms. However, we are certain that the return of her wayward apprentice would smooth over any number of long-past grievances. Do you understand, Jonathan?”

He swallows and nods. The Queen pats his cheek and waves her ladies over. “That’s better. Cheer up, Jonathan. It is an honor to serve in the highest of all Courts. Give us a smile and say thank you, like a good boy.”

“Thank you, Your Gracious Luminescence,” he says quietly, with a deep bow. The Queen honors him with a smile as he is escorted out of her sight. She knew his training was still salvageable.

* * *

It takes her days to find an entrance.

She knows who it was that took him, of course. Carmilla is a witch, and she may have been able to spirit him away, but she wouldn't have taken only one of them. Not because Nastya was dear to her, or a particularly valuable asset aside from the usefulness of having a fae to experiment on, but because they were both _hers_ , and she would not have let the insult of Nastya's escape stand any more than Jonny's if she'd found them. No, Nastya knows it was the Court. And she knows she has to find him, even though the thought of facing the people who cast her out as a child terrifies her.

In theory, she knows how to get to the Court—a hollow tree, a passage under a hill, a fairy ring. It's simple enough. The trouble, of course, is that these are few and far between, and there isn't exactly signage pointing travelers in their direction. Last time she went underhill with Jonny, he was the one who found the entrance, and besides, it didn't lead to the Court. It's been a long time since she had to do anything on her own. Jonny is good at getting information out of people; he can blend in better than she can, and he can speak to strangers without freezing or panicking. The prospect of approaching strangers, by herself, and asking them about entrances to the Court… It's daunting. The last thing she wants is for people to be thinking about the fae while they look at her. If they clock her as inhuman, and Jonny isn't here to find her if she's taken… Well. She knows it's very likely they'd kill her. She's not a child anymore; whatever limited mercy people might have shown in the past will have thoroughly run out. If she's found out, she'll almost certainly be killed, or, if they're squeamish, beaten and left for dead.

But she needs to find Jonny.

She lingers for less than a day in the town they were in when Jonny disappeared. She manages to ask a few children about local stories of entrances to the fae realm. There don't seem to be any. She moves on.

She walks without rest until she reaches the next town. It's a little bigger, and it's easier to disappear into the crowd here. She feels confident enough in the bustling streets to snatch a bread roll and an apple from vendors in the market; she ducks into an alleyway and eats ravenously.

It takes her a few days to get anything useful out of the locals. She's painfully aware that time passes differently in the Court than it does here; she tries not to think about how long this wait might be for Jonny, and what the fae might be doing to him. Her careful, circumspect questions get her nowhere; all she gets in return are odd looks and curt dismissals. It isn't until she sits down with an old woman peeling potatoes on a stoop that she finds what she's looking for. The woman is wrinkled and bent-backed, with shrewd, dark eyes. Nastya says she's new to the area, asks if there's anywhere that's dangerous, anywhere she should avoid, perhaps outside of the town. The old woman peers at her thoughtfully for a moment, and Nastya is terribly afraid that she's seen through her.

“You mean magical places,” she says. It's not a question, but Nastya nods. The woman hums. “There's a fairy ring by the woods to the north. Nasty thing. Follow the river; you can't miss it.”

The old woman was right. It's not hard to find. Nastya leaves the town and makes her way north along the slim, rushing river, lined with scattered birch trees, until she finds a neat circle of toadstools. She's not sure if it's her imagination, or if there really is a slight warping of the air inside it, the barest unnatural shimmer.

She's terrified. She has no powers—at least none that she knows how to use—and no weapons, except for a big stick she picked up on the way here. She knows very little about how the Court works. Jonny never liked talking about it, and she never pushed. She's in way over her head.

But it's for Jonny.

Nastya takes a deep breath and steps forward into the ring.

* * *

It seems a Questant is approaching the Court. The Queen’s hand stills on her newest pet’s head as she waits for them to declare their purpose here. She raises an eyebrow as they near her throne. Unusually, this Questant is not a human, but a fae. A cait sidhe, and a young one at that, barely more than a kitten. Scrawny and heavily scarred, with her large dark coat the only half-decent garment. This at least is typical for a Questant. A shame that they cannot be denied entry for failure to don Court-appropriate attire.

"Your Majesty," she spits, voice impressively steady. "I've come to take my brother back."

The boy stiffens under her hand, head snapping up. This would be the sister he mentioned, then. A poor excuse for a fae, to allow herself to become so indebted to not only a mere mortal but a changeling.

“A noble quest, and an old one,” the Queen acknowledges. “Can you prove that you have a claim to him?”

The girl all but growls at her. “Jonathan Vangelis is my brother, and I have the right to challenge you for him.”

The Queen’s lips thin. She will need to reprimand the boy later. His Name was no longer his to give away, and to do so was the height of rudeness. For a servant to steal from their master so? Unacceptable.

“It will not be easy, you know. His Name and thus his freedom belong to us.”

"Not for long," the Questant declares. "I will be leaving with him, and you will relinquish all claim to him and his Name."

The Queen hums, considering. “What do you think about that, Jonathan?” She tilts his head up to face the Questant.

"Nastya, run, please," he begs. "Don't die for me."

“That will be enough, Jonathan.” She studies the Questant he calls Nastya. “He is a sweet thing. We can see why you would want him back.”

The Questant bristles. The Queen watches her hackles raise. A disgrace to her race, to show her investment in this matter so blatantly.

"He's not a _thing_ at all." She looks at the boy. "Don't be stupid, Jonny," she says, voice significantly softer. "I'm not leaving without you."

The Questant’s devotion rings true. It seems some entertainment can be had from this.

“If your mind is made up, there is precedent for a… trial, of sorts. Succeed, and we will relinquish our claim upon his Name and his freedom.”

“State your terms.” No hesitation. She must be hubristic, desperate, or both. The Queen does not care which; it does not significantly impact the quality of the show.

The Queen shrugs artfully. “It is a simple thing, really. Keep hold of him as we change his shape seven times. If you let him go, he remains ours. Last through all seven changes, and you may have him.”

“I accept.”

The Queen smiles. “Excellent. Jonathan, go stand next to her.”

He obeys, of course, stumbling to the Questant on trembling legs. She does not hesitate before wrapping her arms around him. He clings to her just as tightly, for now. Their shared terror is palpable, a solemn aura settling over the Court. Such trials are not undertaken lightly.

It will be most interesting to see how this girl compares to the human heroes before her. The Queen sits back to watch the show. 

With a silent motion, she initiates the first transformation—an adder, as is traditional. The boy shrieks in pain until his new throat reduces the sound to a weak hiss. Every muscle, every bone is warped and changed, skin ossifying and cracking into scales. His hold on his sister and rational thought dissolve with his arms. He squirms, lashing out in fear. His fangs sink into the thing that's holding him. His sister does not cry out, just grits her teeth and holds on. The fangs in her flesh serve to anchor the snake through his panicked flailing.

It would be rather boring if she faltered on the first challenge. With a wave of her hand, the Queen transforms him into a bear. Scales shatter and fall, giving way to dark brown fur. The boy bellows in pain as his muscles expand, limbs reforming with agonizing speed. He roars and swipes out with his newfound claws, trying to break free. The Questant makes a choked sound of pain, but holds him tight and does not let go. 

Apparently, a change of pace is required. Ice. She returns him to the size and shape of his original form, for entertainment purposes. As he shrinks, fur receding into his skin, his flesh grows transparent and brittle. He manages to cry out at the pain only once before his vocal cords are frozen solid, half-fallen tears solidifying on his face. Before long, all of him is ice save his still-beating heart. His sister gasps at the shock of sudden cold but tightens her grip.

Impressive. Most do not make it this long. A lion, next. The ice shatters to reveal gleaming golden fur and sharp teeth. He breaks free from his frozen shell as a whirlwind of motion and power. Claws spring from his paws and scrabble uselessly at the ground. A loud roar booms through the hall. His sister maintains her hold, fingers desperately clinging to his mane.

A swan. One of the Queen’s personal favorites. Fur vanishes as pure white feathers sprout, stained with blood where they burst through skin. He writhes as he shrinks, neck elongating, teeth falling out as his jaw reshapes into a beak. He beats at the arms holding him with his wings, trumpeting in panic. The swan form is unwieldy; the Questant tightens her grip, pain momentarily overshadowed by fear of being shaken loose.

The Queen watches her struggle for a moment, then initiates the second to last change. A wolf. Fangs and claws tear through flesh, bones creaking as wings and webbed feet twist into paws. He howls, jaws snapping wildly as he struggles with all his newfound muscle. The Questant groans through gritted teeth as her brother bites her, but she does not let go. 

There is a great deal of flexibility in which forms she chooses. The requirements of the trial are somewhat… loose. The Queen studies the Questant and her many scars, then decides to hedge her bets. She flicks her fingers and turns the boy into a chunk of white-hot iron. Skin falls away as bones and flesh compress, all signs of life vanishing into searing metal. At this, the Questant finally screams, doubling over in excruciating pain. Her tears drip over her burning hands onto the ground, every muscle trembling as her breath grows frenetic. Even in the throes of agony, she keeps her grip tight and unyielding.

The Queen’s face grows increasingly flat with every second that the Questant maintains her hold. When she can no longer delay, The Queen sighs and manifests a pond next to her.

Trembling and sobbing, the Questant plunges her hands into the water. The cool water washes over the iron, sweeping away the transformations and restoring the boy to his original form. He gasps and stares up at his sister.

"You're alive," he says in wonder. She does not answer, just pulls the heavy coat off of her shoulders and wraps it around him—not quite so ignorant of tradition after all.

The Queen suppresses a sigh and steps down from her throne. It seems there will be no contesting the results on a technicality.

“My congratulations upon your victory, Questant,” she declares, gliding towards them.

The Questant’s shoulders stiffen, and she turns to look at the Queen. She shifts to place herself in front of her brother, jaw setting as she gazes up defiantly.

The Queen raises a single eyebrow. “There is no need for that attitude, child. Certain steps are required to return his name.”

The siblings’ hands are joined, knuckles white. Voice hoarse from screaming, the Questant asks, “What steps?”

“A brief touch.”

The boy stands, wavering on his feet a little, and puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder to steady himself. He looks the Queen in the eye defiantly as he faces her.

“Jonathan Vangelis,” she says, savoring the taste of it for the last time. She places her hand on his chest and shoves it in, sinking through the skin. “Your sister is brave, and she has won you your Name and your freedom. But she is young, and should have been more specific.” The boy gasps in shock, chest shuddering helplessly around her hand as his sister freezes in terror. “We think we’ll keep this,” the Queen says calmly, pulling the heart from his chest. She manifests a heart of stone and places it in the gaping cavity.

The Queen straightens imperiously, nails digging into the heart in her hand as the knowledge of the boy’s Name fades from her mind. “You have succeeded in your quest, and your time as our guest has ended. Leave our Court, before we set the Hunt on you.” She turns her back on the siblings and departs.

* * *

The Court shimmers out of existence around them. They find themselves in a field, underneath the canopy of a large elder tree; in the distance is a herd of cattle. Jonny immediately turns and pulls Nastya into a hug, and she clings to him, sobbing. Her heart aches for him.

“You did it,” Jonny says, amazed. “You really fucking did it.”

Nastya buries her face in his shoulder.

“What are you talking about?” she says hoarsely. “I didn't— She took your _heart!_ Jonny, I'm so sorry, I should've— I'm _so_ sorry.”

He laughs, a little bit hysterically.

“But you didn't _die._ You got me out, and you didn't die! Gods, I was so scared.”

His grip tightens, and she gladly burrows closer to him. She takes a deep breath and nods.

“Of course I got you out,” she says quietly. “I'm— Fuck, I'm so sorry you had to wait. I came as soon as I could.”

She feels him shake his head.

“I know. You're amazing.”

Nastya laughs wetly and squeezes him. “I missed you.”

She's disheveled and bleeding, and her hands still burn—she knows she'll have new scars, and doubtless her nightmares will return in full force now that the cold sting of iron is fresh in her mind—but Jonny's back. Nothing else matters.

“I missed you too,” he says. “I thought I'd never see you again.”

He kisses her forehead and whispers a spell. After a moment, she feels some of the pain in her hands subside. She smiles weakly at him. Now that she's no longer running on adrenaline and desperation, she feels nearly overwhelmed by exhaustion.

“Thank you. Can we try to find some shelter? I haven't really… slept much. Since they took you.” She grimaces. “Although. We should probably find a stream first. I'm filthy.” She's too tired to bathe properly, but she should at least clean off the blood and grime.

“Yeah,” Jonny agrees. “Cleaning up, then sleep.” He gets up and looks around. “This way, I think. Let's go.”

Nastya takes his hand and follows. She's tired and hungry and filthy, but she's not afraid anymore. They'll be okay. They're together.

**Author's Note:**

> from [child 39B](http://tam-lin.org/versions/39B.html):  
> 'Had I but kend, Thomas,' she says,  
> Before I came frae hame,  
> I had taen out that heart o flesh,  
> Put in a heart o stane.'
> 
> obviously this was too perfect for jonny to not write about.


End file.
